Incurable
by Tavian
Summary: Harry bravely battles fatal attraction. Just a bit of silliness, low on plot. Harry/Draco oneshot.


Warning: This fic contains slash. I think it's pretty mild, though.

**Incurable**

"_Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from Malfoy," _Harry silently pled _"May his tight ass be far removed from my vision."_

Honestly, how could Harry be expected to catch the snitch when there were prime examples male perfection to be ogled? It was beyond him to discover. After all, a well-rounded person should not pass up any opportunity to study the human form. Memorize which facial angles are most pleasing, appreciate leather-clad calves, asphyxiate at glimpses of flashing sterling eyes, wish Quidditch robes were a little tighter …. Harry sighed.

It was thoughts like these that led Harry to suspect that he was succumbing to some sort of madness. Surely some incurable, unheard of wizarding malady had infected him and launched an attack, because what else could make any self-respecting arch nemesis melt to a lusty puddle at the sight (or sound or whiff) of his rival? Nothing.

Conquering hero that he was, though, Harry had bravely decided to accept this unfortunate little twist of fate. He was no coward – he was a Gryffindor, by crackey! Defender of the helpless, champion of the innocent. And so forth. He would not be cowed by thoughts and urges that were obviously beyond his control. So, with a resigned sigh he had resolved to submit to the luscious sensory banquet that Draco Malfoy unknowingly provided. He allowed himself to gaze his horny fill and swoon like a debutante. No one ever had to know.

It had all started one day when Harry caught a bit of a conversation between Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. What Harry witnessed had gone a little something like this:

"…_student population would want to kiss you, Draco."_

"_I don't know why they wouldn't," Malfoy had replied, "I'm an extremely good kisser. I have never had any complaints, and knee-buckling and fainting has been known to occur. Here, I'll show you."_

And he did. Pansy's knees buckled. So did Harry's.

Never one to disagree with a reasonable argument, Harry had paused to consider Malfoy's good points, and had to conclude that they were considerable. Since that day, they had also been inescapable. Whenever Harry saw Malfoy now he had to wonder how he had never before noticed that the boy's earlobes really needed some sucking on, or that his hair was practically begging for fingers to be run through it, or that he was the perfect height for Harry's head to rest on his shoulder. Then he would remember that he was only thinking _those_ thoughts because of his unidentified disease à la blonde git.

Such thoughts had been sneaking up on his brain at the most inopportune times. Right now, for example. As Malfoy leaned provocatively forward to accelerate his broom, clearly in hot pursuit of something. Oh wait, in pursuit… broom…Quidditch robes….Thought processes finally connected in Harry's head to form the startling conclusion that there was a game to be played and a Snitch to be caught. He tore after Malfoy, thankful that he had the faster broom and the superior flying skills.

When Harry finally and inevitably had the Snitch in his hand, he landed lightly on the field and gave Malfoy a jaunty half-bow. Malfoy just raised his eyebrow and sneered before the Gryffindors swarmed, blocking Harry's grinning face from sight.

Ah, Harry could write odes to that eyebrow.

After several weeks of patient subjection to torment, Harry's wrist was getting rather sore and his condition was not improving. He may have decided to let his hormones frolic where they may, but there is only so much daydreaming one can stomach before steps must be taken. Harry seemed to recall Hermione saying that diseases could sometimes be cured by treating the symptoms. A fool-proof plan was therefore hatched, and with a look at his map and a dash of cologne Harry was off, grimly determined to overthrow his silver-eyed addiction.

Malfoy stepped from the kitchens full up of hot cocoa and in a rather decent mood. He strode through the halls towards the dungeons, happily practicing various useful facial expressions. Smirk, sneer, icy glare, snarl, curled lip of disgust, condescending eyebrow, sneer, smirk. Oh, he was a pro. He was not, however, prepared for the impending ambush.

As though a sneaky Gryffindor had cast a sneaky spell on them, Draco's shoelaces were suddenly untied. He sat on a bench in an alcove that had conveniently been right next to him when disaster struck, and bent to fix the problem. Once sorted, Draco rose to move along again, but was brought up short by a soft giggle and a Golden Boy. Draco narrowed his eyes and demanded to know the particular reason for Harry's existence.

Harry fluttered his eyelashes beguilingly over his wide, emerald eyes and closed in on his prey.

"Malfoy," said Harry, with an expression of abject woe, "I'm sorry to have to do this, but there's just no other way."

"What are you on about, Potter?"

"You really should be grateful for this chance to save the world's savior from an unknown fate. I'm sure you won't be bothered too much if you just close your eyes. Imagine I'm your mirror or something."

Malfoy cut in, "I knew this day would come. I just never thought it'd be so soon. Really, my deepest condolences for the passing of your mental faculties. Now sod off." He then attempted to sweep off coolly into the distance.

Harry had, quite cunningly, left Malfoy no escape route. As Malfoy discovered this, Harry shot him a pitying look.

"There's nothing for it, Malfoy. Best get it over with."

With that, Malfoy was suddenly confronted with the alarming aspect of a closed-eyed, pucker-lipped Harry leaning up towards his shocked-immobile face. He had only just started formulating alternate explanations for this odd behavior when simultaneously little Potter-sized hands grasped the front of his wrinkle-resistant shirt and Potter-shaped lips rammed into his.

How strange. He could swear that Harry Potter was kissing him.

With the poise and savoir faire of one bred to not be surprised by any situation, Draco determined that the only thing to do was to kiss the enthusiastic leech back.

His remaining brain cells attempted to congratulate himself on a decision well made. How perfectly delightful. Mm yes, Potter was warm and soft and sweet, his tongue was ingenious, and his body delectable as it snuggled closer into Draco's arms. Not even his hundred Galleon silk bathrobe had ever felt quite this perfect.

While Harry was despairing of ever making a full recovery, Draco speculated that just maybe Potter was onto something with that brain damage thing of his. In fact, it seemed quite contagious.

_fin_


End file.
